


One of Us

by ___witchcraftandwizardry___ (LinguistLove_24)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book & Movie Combination -Non Canon elements, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Dream Sequence, Gen, Light Angst, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/___witchcraftandwizardry___
Summary: "Settling back into sleeping position with incredible unease, he punched his flattened pillow to plump it and desperately wished he could be 'one of them'"Book/movie combination/author take on Philosopher's Stone and surrounding timeframe. AU elements.





	One of Us

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to point out that though I love, love, LOVE all the Potter books and movies, this is my first posted fiction for the fandom anywhere, but I do hope to be writing more under this Pseud of witchcraftandwizardry, so follow or check back if that's your cup of tea. ;) Kudos and comments are life giving for authors, so do leave some!! 
> 
> Prompts/requests ideas are always welcome. I will attempt to oblige some/any/all if and when I am able. As stated in summary this is a sort of AU book/movie combo for Philospher's Stone and that time frame in the series. The first movie was my favourite, and this was what was in my head after recently watching it again.
> 
> I proofed this twice over before posting, but I am slightly sleep deprived so any mistakes are my own oversight and I apologise.

**One of Us**

 

 

Harry Potter awoke to heated pinpricks reverberating through the lightening shaped scar on his forehead. As he bolted upright, his pupils adjusted to the pitch darkness and he relaxed, supporting his weight with the palms of his hands and pushing indentations into his mattress. Casting his gaze slightly aloft, he made out the vague shape of the bare light bulb that dangled precariously from the ceiling, only then realising that he'd fallen asleep with his glasses still attached to his face.

 

 

“Could've sworn I took them off,” he muttered softly, and shook his head as if to clear the fog that had descended upon his brain.

 

 

Light assaulted his retinas as soon as he pulled the worn old chain hanging from the bulb. It wasn't the best or the brightest, nothing ever seemed to be in his living quarters, (could you even call an old dusty cupboard under a set of creaky stairs 'living quarters'?) but given the darkness that permeated the space through the night hours, the sudden change was a shock.

 

 

Once freshly acclimated, he became awash with the recurring dread and feelings of nausea that never seemed to leave. Thoughts nagged his brain that he couldn't shake, questions arose that he couldn't make sense of. Merely existing was exhausting.

 

 

What had his mother been like, his father? Would he have had his own room in their house, or would they lock him away and treat him as though he were a pariah just as his aunt and uncle had done? Were they affectionate towards one another? Would they extend that to him? Wasn't that what real parents were supposed to do, or were families all the likes of Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley Dursley?

 

 

In all his ten and a half years of life, he'd never been able to figure out why they seemed to loathe him so desperately, why they denied him food, clothing that fit, and even fresh air. Sometimes his scar burned when he thought too much of the apparent car crash that had claimed his parents, and he wondered how bad it had been, deeply hoping they hadn't suffered in the end. Aunt Petunia brushed off his questions of such things with the wave of a hand, looking on as if he were nothing more than a fly she wanted to swat away.

 

The scar lived up to its image, pain shooting through it anew, hot and electric. Biting down on his lower lip was the only thing which kept Harry from crying out, and though he could taste that he'd drawn blood, he was thankful for it. Heaven only knew the wrath he'd have to endure tomorrow should he wake everyone at whatever ungodly hour it may be. (Walls of his sleeping quarters were sterile and white, without so much as a calendar for him to keep track of the passage of time)

 

 

As the pain intensified, he reminded himself of the dream from which he'd so abruptly been jolted. It came to him in fragments, but they seemed a balm to his soul right then.

 

_Harry found himself situated on a train, rolling methodically along tracks somewhere underfoot._

 

 

 

_...Asking a red headed boy whom he didn't know whether he could switch seats with him so as to be able to see out the window._

 

 

… _Red headed boy (who'd conveniently forgotten to mention his name) agreeing and changing positions, startling him when he spoke up again after beats of long silence._

 

 

_“Bloody brilliant, 'innit?” he said with emphasis, nodding toward the glass pane separating them from the rolling hills of the vast countryside. “Never seen anything like it, but I suspect I'll get used to it. 'S'only my first year.”_

 

 

_“First year?” Harry felt as if he were on the outside of some exclusive inner circle, thoughts more confuddled than they'd ever been._

 

 

_“At Hogwarts!” the boy exclaimed, looking to him as though he'd gone mad._

 

 

_Harry looked on blankly, blocking out the whimsical sights and sounds of his surroundings until the clattering of a trolley making its way through the cars and coming to a stop at his compartment brought him back._

 

 

_“Anything from the trolley, dears?” The woman at its head looked at the boys with a twinkle in her eye and waited. Harry thought better of opening his mouth. He'd had a short life thus far, but had made a fool of himself in too many instances throughout not to be cautious._

 

 

_“I've only enough for a chocolate frog or two,” the boy next to Harry told her, somewhat dismayed as he fished a few measly gold tokens from his pocket. Harry's eyes widened as his travelling companion handed them over, never having seen money (or what he assumed to be such) quite like that._

 

 

_“Thank you,” mystery boy called to the trolley driver's back after quickly unwrapping his first Chocolate Frog, receiving no response._

 

 

_“I'm Ron, by the way.” The voice that escaped was confident as he extended a pale, freckled hand toward Harry. “Ron Weasley.”_

 

 

_Harry grasped Ron's digits in a weak attempt at a handshake, was about to offer up his own name, but felt his mouth hanging agape as his eyes took in the sight of a piece of chocolate in the shape of a frog coming to life and leaping out a small crack in the top of the window._

 

 

_“Woah,” Harry breathed incredulously._

 

 

_“Rotten luck that was,” Ron muttered as if chastising himself. “They've only got one good jump in them.”_

 

 

_“...How...?” Harry couldn't even begin to take in all he had become privy to. Words to ask questions appropriate for the situation failed him miserably._

 

 

_“It's magic,” Ron responded as though Harry were daft._

 

 

_“Magic?”_

 

 

_“Yeah,” Ron said slowly, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “You've got to know at least_ that _. You're on the train to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You're one of us now.”_

 

 

...”One of us,” Harry repeated faintly to himself as though it were a mantra, rubbing his scar and realising the shooting pain had totally ceased. Again, he found himself surrounded by things he knew: his tiny cupboard beneath the stairwell, coated with dust and draped with cobwebs and their creepy-crawling inhabitants; his all too thin and stained mattress, the little shelf where he kept his glasses (which he'd taken off his face at some point during the bizarre recollections)

 

 

Recollections.

 

 

Yes, he told himself with a sigh, it was all just a dream. A wild, capricious, made up dream, created by his troubled mind as a coping mechanism.

 

 

Settling back into sleeping position with incredible unease, he punched his flattened pillow to plump it and desperately wished he could be _one of them._

 


End file.
